


Dear Senator Organa,

by Goodknight



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Emotional Abuse, F/M, Gaslighting, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Murder, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8293529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodknight/pseuds/Goodknight
Summary: For numerous reasons, which I will outline in the pages to follow, I was forced to shoot your son 15 times in the head during our stay in Southern France.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (early) Hallowe'en! This story is quite differently structured than anything I've ever attempted, but its been pretty neat trying to find Hux's voice and play with 1st person. 
> 
> All places mentioned here are fake. All pictures but one are my own (The one at the river is stock). 
> 
> If you think you might like to read this fic but aren't sure, and would like a more detailed warning, I've written a little spiel in the end notes - feel free to give that a glance (it's not even spoilery!). Otherwise, I hope it's alright and I'll see you at the end :] Cheers!

Dear Senator Organa,  
    For numerous reasons, which I will outline in the pages to follow, I was forced to shoot your son 15 times in the head during our stay in Southern France.  
  
Several times after the public announcement of its purchase by the Ambrosa, Kylo expressed a fervent desire to visit Europe and see Igor Vincent's dark masterpiece 'The Murder of Orlo' in person. He was particularly interested, I think, by the show in which it was featured - a collection of emotional pieces focused on duels and gory swordplay, and was playing to my own appreciation of 15th century painting, specifically, in order to convince me to pay for his trip into Europe during the festival season.  
  
I purchased our tickets and created our travel itinerary in late February, in good time to wrap them in a deceptively large box and gift them to him for his 24th birthday - the expense of the trip was nearly justified alone by the look of abashed horror on his face when he tore through the wrapping like a spoilt child and lifted a small log - the itinerary - out of the box.  
  
'You got me a schedule for my birthday?' He asked, smudging at the lined paper pages with his fingers as he flipped them.  
  
It was so completely like him not to read the contents, so I told him that yes, I had created a schedule for him since he is chronically late and forgetful. Inattentiveness is a dastardly poor quality in a man. It always surprised me, Kylo's upbringing being what it was (by a former general and an active senator), that he had no propriety to speak of.  
  
I, too, in fact, was raised by a politically minded military commander. My father was Brendol Hux. Strange how one similarly bred child can turn out so differently from another. I have always personally believed that the proper upbringing of a child includes all facets of his or her life, which must be adequately monitored and controlled by the parent, who takes on the role of somewhat of a pupeteer. It is a failing of the parent when the child falls into the care of unsavories. Children must, put bluntly, be groomed into their station. My parents were both somewhat doting, but extremely practical, recognising my shortcomings as they were and hiring tutors where they were needed so that I learnt to overcome, outgrow, or compensate in other ways. I look back on a very favourable early life.  
  
Well, when Kylo was angry, as I'm sure you must remember from what I assume were volatile and unstructured formative years, his face fell like a child about to wail. He dropped easily into despair and flared more quickly than a struck match, but his cheeks never heated, turned ruddy, or got splotchy. His was a pale and twitching anger. His mouth hung slightly open. I know this expression so well I can picture it as vividly as though Kylo were standing before me, frenzied over a small, disappointing present in an enticingly large wrapper.  
  
His hands were tense and shaking, and I suffered a small amount of real fear that he would tear the itinerary to shreds before I remembered the back-up copies, and nearly diffused him. I did remember them, though, so he ripped the little journal down the middle and noticed the plane tickets as they fluttered in jagged halves to the floor, and I watched.  
  
'We leave on the 15th of May.' I told him, as he drank in the sight of what he'd done. 'Or, rather, we would have.'  
  
Kylo was almost majestic in his emotion. I admit I am still not entirely sure which feeling he was feeling at that particular moment, but I hope it was guilt or something like it, and suspect he may have felt sad. In any case, he looked very tense.  
  
It was difficult to force Kylo Ren (Ben Solo, I believe, you named him - after some family members he hated) to apologise. I used to enjoy setting him up to feel like he should, though. Whether he did or not really did not matter to me, but it was good that he think I deserved an apology - that he may have done something wrong.  
  
I think, and I hope you'll excuse my armchair psychology, that Kylo Ren's anger overrode his senses far more thoroughly than other men's, to the point of being something of a mental disease. Problems controlling and managing anger are often related to stress and poor familial situations. While I'm sure Kylo was quite stressed, he often complained about his upbringing, and it is my opinion that therein lies the blame. Were you perhaps too coddling? Did you ignore him? What could you have done to prevent his growing up into the utter beast of a man he became?  
  
Several times I was told the story of how Kylo came to live with his uncle after the separation of his parents, and how it grieved him to be sent away - refused, discarded. Sometimes, in his retelling, he was grateful of the freedom from you, though of that he obviously lied, since he used to complain that you were rarely home or 'there for him', and so his emancipation from the family was not a betrayal, but an inevitability - he saw himself as the black sheep, but he wanted, I think, to be loved unconditionally, no matter how he sabotaged his relationships until they were as rotten as he was. The flat truth of the matter is that when he dropped out of his final year of highschool, changed his name, and stopped answering your calls, he had come to me. What drove him to it is irrelevant, in the end, as is how he felt about it.  
  
The point is this: I became very good at controlling Kylo Ren's anger for him. The trick is to divert it away from yourself, give him lots to explode about in productive ways. His fury over having ruined his own birthday present bent him a little bit - I mean, it made him pliant, subdued. It may come as a surprise to you that Kylo is not un-remorseful in any thing. He believes his actions have been irredeemable and that he is a truly despicable man, and seeks to have himself punished in any way he can, though he does absolutely nothing to change his bad habits and behaviours. I assume he never learnt how to restructure his own self so that he became more desirable over time. Personal growth is very difficult to accomplish, takes a sharp self awareness and ability to self-critise in a constructive manner. I have always been very very good at it, and pity Kylo having never been schooled in the method of becoming a better person. (Unless you think you did all you could? Were you convinced Kylo was born foul and wretched, and so did you throw in the towel right from the start? Or did you think he would teach himself, bumbling fool that he was, to respect things in nature and to be kind? Well, Ms Organa, I must inform you that this was never accomplished. No one stepped up in your empty spaces and raised your son. He was every bit the idiot when I had him as he must have been when you did. I'm sure you tried your very best.)  
  
So you see that I was not being cruel to him. He brooded, sulked, stormed about, and we fucked that night like he was hoping I would somehow devour and destroy him. He needed this process to release the stress I mentioned earlier, and perhaps the tension over the poor familial relations I also mentioned, and I found it all very humourous and etc. So it was mutually beneficial. I don't think either of us were capable of wanting anything more from our time together. I assume you're not surprised to hear that your son is completely and irrefutably unlikeable in every way. I believe he had periods where he loved me, but it was mostly unrequited.  
  
I do recall one moment where I thought he might be salvaged with a little more molding, or if someone had taught him not to leave his dirty socks on the leather sofa, but it was brief. He was gagged and handcuffed to the bedposts at the time. I think I sense a trend, actually - he's laying very quietly in bed now, and I like him just fine.  
  
Anyway, Kylo Ren was not usually practical, and he used to become completely illogical with anger, and anger seemed to be the only emotion he was capable of, like he'd taken great pains to numb himself of everything else. I reminded him that plane tickets are stored online several days later, and he was furious that I'd kept the information from him... which I didn't, of course - it is freely available to anyone who can rub two coherent thoughts together.  
  
Which Ren couldn't. Because of the rage.  
 

  
_A polaroid taken by Kylo on the landing strip in Paris 17/05/07_  
  
Abel St Chalon is an architectural masterpiece. Perhaps you've been there, Senator Organa? If not, I suggest a visit. I was raised in the South of England - Portsmouth, primarily, but I did live in Bath for a handful of years, and then in Hungary and Greece before returning to England for my last year of my highschool education- so I have been in this airport many times between periods of study, and spent some time walking alone through Paris in my youth.  
  
The city is busy. You might think this redundant, but the French are busy in an entirely different way than the English. They rush, they occupy themselves. It is a lifestyle I admire and appreciate. I have yet to meet a Frenchman who has fallen into laziness. My only criticism of the French culture is the luxury and indulgence - I think I am too ascetic to ever really embrace the Parisian way of life.  
  
We arrived late, due to weather related delays. We had been meant to stop by the hotel to freshen up and then have dinner at Par Onze and I was committed to following these plans, anyway. It is not unusual for me to eat well into the night, my schedule being what it is. Kylo, on the other hand, was quite furious. We had both embraced the flight's spirits menu, and alcohol always made Kylo stupider and more basically mean. Not to mention that he hadn't eaten.  
  
I ordered for him at the restaurant, since he was denied the development of even a second language in his childhood, and it was necessary I translate for him. I think French annoyed him.  
  
I'm not trying to insinuate that Kylo did not have a proper education - he and I met at Bernfordshire, so I am personally familiar with the quality of schooling you put on offer to him. He was in fact quite disciplined for such a fitfull teenager, studying diligently the subjects which he was passionate about and achieving good success when he wasn't hammering his fist into the History classroom's back wall.  
  
I had seen him a handful of times, lurking in the hallways like a displaced phantom between classes, before we were ever properly acquainted. He was often asked to leave the classroom so he wouldn't disrupt his peers with his frustrations over grades he deemed unfair and other petty grievances to which he overreacted, so he spent a good deal of time pacing near my locker, cooling down, before slinking ashamedly back into his lessons with a droopy scowl. He must have been aware of me, too, but I was two years ahead and a day student at the time, living in an apartment block owned by my uncle for my last year of secondary school, so we had no occasion to speak to one another until early February, when he interrupted me mid-argument during a meeting of the school's debate club, of which I was president.  
  
'Is there something you need?' I recall asking, as he glowered from the doorway.  
  
'I'm here for the meeting.' He said, or said something like it.  
  
I gestured him into the room, and he arranged himself at a desk. He always kept his hair on the brink of too long to be allowed. I guessed, even before knowing, that he had a parent of good influence. He sat so the hole he had put in the plaster was set just over his right shoulder. Debate was always held in the History room. Stalin stood in regalia behind him, to the left. I think this was my first real impression of Kylo Ren: sitting with a dark expression, framed by these two great symbols, with his tie tight around his neck and his black jacket buttoned to cinch at his waist.  
  
I was dating Olivia Hellig all through high-school. Her father was a board member and the owner of a barn of polo ponies, an old fashioned man of good heritage who had made his fortune in real estate and lived primarily in Belgium.  
  
Olivia and I had been smoking between classes, both wearing the school scarf and jacket over our blazers. It was snowing. We'd known each other all our lives, in a distant sort of way. She was, I think, a bit delighted that we shared this rebellion - she the Sport Prefect and I of Student Life, a shoe-in for Head Boy next year, cradling lighters in the cold November together against the vine-covered gymnasium wall.  
  
I walked her home most days, holding her hand. Sometimes she invited me into her home, led me up the spiral staircase behind her bobbing skirt, and lifted her shirt in her impersonal pink bedroom.  
  
'Will you marry me?' She had asked, a month before Kylo joined the debate club, after we'd been dating a year.  
  
'It's likely.' I had told her. We were sitting at her dining room table at home, drinking whiskey after class.  
  
Olivia would have been a fine wife. She was beautiful the way extremely wealthy girls always are - well groomed, perfectly dressed, aware of her image in an almost obsessive way. She rode horses, swam lengths, drove a white Audi TT, and wore beige slippers at home. She rolled her skirt so its folds touched her mid-thigh, explicitly short.  
  
Kylo utterly dwarfed her. He was breathtakingly, adrenaline spikingly attractive - sexually, I had never desired Olivia, nor any woman - merely accepted them. Kylo was temptation, and his bad personality should have dissuaged and repulsed me enough to stop me from ever having had to write this letter at all.  
  
He had been instructed to join my club in the hopes that he would find a positive, cerebral outlet for his aggression. But he was chaos. He never learnt to actually debate, as he refused to argue a point he did not believe in. He was massive in his passion, never dumb enough in his arguments to be completely dismissed, but never logical enough to be respected. He made the room addictively angrier.  
  
My girlfriend was a very good debater, but Kylo Ren was an indulgence. I mean, he made me feel hot blooded. Our frenzy was lusty, charged. I should have been level-headed, and usually am, but I wasn't. Kylo Ren was flawed and contagious. I felt, at the time, that I couldn't help myself from riling him up. I let him arouse me.  
  
Our relationship was very different from mine and Olivia's. I brought Kylo to my apartment in cold fury, dazedly fucked him, and locked the door behind him afterwards. I slept easily after our encounters because I knew every time was the last time I would fall to his seductive antagonism. Ultimately, I would marry Olivia.  
  
When Olivia asked me if I was gay, lying on her side on the mattress while I stood at the window in my uniform slacks and looked out, it struck me thoroughly that I might be sabotaging myself.  
  
'Does it matter?' I asked her.  
  
She paused. 'I guess not.'  
  
I look back on this moment often as the last day of my life as it was meant to be. In my head, we were bathed completely in the red sunset, intimate and aware of each other the way a husband and wife should be.  
  
So, the next time Kylo suggested I stop deluding myself and leave my girlfriend, I slapped him. This was the first real mistake I made, the action that started me on the path to this moment, because Kylo was as true a masochist as there ever lived, and he was devoted from that day forward to pursue me in earnest in order to yell at and berate me and strip me completely of my resolve and clothing both.  
  
Olivia was less impassioned, and we separated mutually when she went to China and I let Kylo move in with me in my uncle's apartment. I think it was around this time he stopped speaking with you or his father.  
  
You were probably hoping he would come around, perhaps even return to America. But I think, even if the situation were not what it is, Kylo wouldn't have ever sought you out. It could be that he felt somewhat trapped, relying on me for his room and board and having cut ties with you so completely. He's never been good at fixing anything, and is quite socially stupid, so I think repairing your relationship would have been made impossible by the stubbornness of his nature - and, as I explained earlier, Kylo was incapable of changing who he was. Unlike me, he was quite resigned in the life he'd chosen, and more than willing to commit and surrender to it. Does that comfort you? He was as good as dead to you as of the moment he tore all the 'O' pages from his phonebook. Often he used to tell me he was no-one's son, as though it were a badge he wore with great solemnity, a title that had been thrust upon him by the unjust fates; the bastard.  
  
He always ate like it was his last supper, my wallet be damned. Pity the fool who stood in the way of a tipsy Kylo who wanted two desserts. Par Onze's menu is actually quite small, with fewer classic French dishes than I might have liked, catering more to the tourist than the local. Of course, Kylo didn't notice - he always wanted steak when he couldn't understand what was on offer to him, and it was fruitless complaining to him, since he would snipe at me for being picky. He was only really interested in knowing about the beers and the creams and the chocolate cake. He was really a simple man. His strange spirituality or religion or whatever it was demanded it, if I recall correctly, but I think in his heart he truly wanted very little.  
  
I ordered the escargot, because it is so rarely on offer in England - excuse me my predictability, but sometimes I, too, am guilty of being easily pleased- and a white wine. The wine was more expensive than it needed to be, and the snails were just this side of too tough. If you are ever in France, I think the Resto V is a superior choice for fine dining. My father owns a part share, of course, but I don't recommend it out of bias - there's a reason he wanted to buy it.  
  
After a night in the hotel, during which Kylo snored obnoxiously, as he usually does when he's gone to bed drunk, we took a tour of one of the streets. This was where the great idea struck me.  
  
Leia, I have been candid here in this letter about my personality and past both, so you have probably realised what sort of man I am. The sort to achieve high title in politics and military, to vote for the Unionists, to take on the legacy of a father with high expectations. Not the sort, surely, to run off to France with a nameless fiend in an old black scarf. I am not romantic, I am not spontaneous. Kylo Ren challenged the very fibre of my being. He was a threat to me and my future. Killing him was the very definition of self defense.  
  
_Roses shot by Kylo on Rue Brigardier-Chef Jaques, 18/05/07_  
  
We moved from shop to shop quickly. Kylo has a short attention span for things not immediately useful or relevant to him. Our longest time was spent in a pawn shop which sold, among other things, military antiques. Kylo always liked to act like he had a preternatural connection to swords. He was obsessed with your father, as I'm sure you're aware, so he revelled in the opportunity to meditate while he stared into the glass cases where the weaponry was kept. He tried to convince me that buying him a sword would help him connect with his ancestor and find inner peace or some other thing, and I of course ignored him.  
  
I am not particularly sentimental. I bought a gun.  
  
Becoming licensed to own a firearm in France is actually quite simple. I did the paper work before ever arriving, and have been licensed in the UK for years. I really wasn't planning on shooting your son in France, per say - as I said, I had the fully formed revelation that it must absolutely be done, and soon, as we were walking side by side on Rue Brigardier-Chef Jaques that very day - but I had been entertaining the idea mostly subconsciously for quite some time, I think, and had wondered more than once if I would be able to do it, if I would want to do it, how I would need to do it; I was always casually ready to do it at any time, just in case I had to.  
  
We ate pain au chocolat and drank coffee under an umbrella, purchased two French novels at a small shop down the block, went for dinner, and then to the hotel I had chosen - Villa de la Terre d'Argent - and Kylo bathed in the Jacuzzi while I drank wine in the king bed, checking emails.  
  
His body moving in the tub was like a dark ballet. He poured water over his wavy hair, ran his hands over his shoulders, brushed his bangs from his forehead with the cruel grace of the black swan. I had to put him out of his artistic, religious misery.  
  
That night, I extracted myself from his arms, pushed his face away from my shoulder, and took the gun out of its box in the shopping bag, where it had been sitting next to Kylo's sweets and a cafe receipt. I opened the barrel. Kylo was sleeping very quietly in the blue evening, sliced at the shoulder by a strip of silver moonlight. I stood with the gun in my hands, with him helpless before me: my dilemma, my moral enemy, my opposite in every conceivable way, the man who had steered me so completely from my proper path, who had stolen my sense and my resolve. Only when he was still like this was I safe from his devilish ways. He must not wake! Not ever again!  
  
I wanted fiercely to raise the gun, look soundly through the sights, level it, and kill your son, Senator... but I had not bought any bullets.  
  
It is entirely more difficult to clobber a man to death with an antique handgun than it is to shoot him with it. It is, in fact, rather difficult to kill a man at all. The human body is incredible in its ability to withstand violence.  
  
Take, for instance, the bizarre case of Arthur Matters. Matters was the victim of a vicious attack during which he was stabbed nearly a hundred times in his home in Santa Barbara by a violent invader. His survival is testament to the strength of the human will and proof of the uncertainty and unpredictability of death.  
  
Beatings are brutal, messy, and, most importantly, intimate.  
  
So, yes - I put away the Webley.  
  
I have one last photograph taken by your son to give to you, from our walk along the river Siene, after another day spent pursuing the Parisian shops and a visit to Armurerie Achille. I will send the rest of his belongings to you as soon as I return to the UK, as I have no desire to keep them, either.   
  
  
_20/05/07, before checking into the hotel._  
  
At this point, you might be wondering if Kylo ever saw The Murder of Orlo. He did not.  
  
Earlier tonight, after Kylo fell against the pillows, his wet hair a dark halo against the white sheets, I aimed a loaded gun at his slack face. He did not stir as I shot him. Six times, and then reloaded. Six more times, to be sure, and then, because I had the bullets and would likely never need them again (why waste), and also because I really did not want to spend another second wanting so desperately to remove him completely from the face of this good Earth as I did at that moment - even though he was splattered across the walls and had become nothing more than a bloody pulp on the matress with a naked body attached - I shot him three more times for good measure, and never once missed.

  
_The view outside our hotel window. I took this one, just now. Unpleasant, isn't it? I allowed Kylo to choose the hotel; a small kindness I now regret - dead men don't care where they lay their heads, or that the continental breakfast is held in the bloody basement. 11:57 20/05/07_  
  
I hope you have no further inquiries regarding Kylo's passing, as I would prefer you did not attempt to contact me.  
  
Regards,  
                   


**Author's Note:**

> This is story is mostly about Hux - it is told from his very biased and limited perspective. He shares numerous harmful, negative, often mean opinions which are not my own. Part of the exercise, to me, of writing this narrative, is exploring an 'evil' character's inner thoughts and ideas, as they would differ so completely from mine. In this story, Hux is manipulative, unkind, unfair, and generally nasty to Kylo Ren. He does many things with the intention of goading Kylo. This story also contains premeditated murder. Hux is unrepentant in his desire to kill Kylo, and describes why he thinks this was the right choice with no regard to Kylo's personhood. If you would be uncomfortable with these themes and how they are presented, I'd understand if you take a pass on this story. Otherwise, I hope it's convincing and interesting! Thank you for stopping in, either way :)


End file.
